When we killed what we were to become what we are, what did we do
with the bodies? We did what most people do; buried them under the
floorboards and got used to the smell.

Written on the body a fost prima carte pe care am citit-o. M-a fermecat, dar eram inca nesigura. Daca a fost doar o sclipire? Ceva trecator?
Apoi am citit Gut Symmetries si am stiut ca nu e vorba despre un accident ci despre o constanta. Despre o scriitoare dureros de lucida si taioasa. Despre o femeie puternica si analitica. Despre scriitorul cel mai apropiat de sufletul meu.

This is the difficulty. Now that physics is proving the intelligence of the
universe what are we to do about the stupidity of human kind? I include myself.
I know that the earth is not flat but my feet are. I know that the space is
curbed but my brain has been coordoned by habit to grow in a straight line. What
I call light is my own blend of darkness.

Gut Symmetries este o carte dificila si intortocheata.
Ea se indragosteste de el. El se joaca cu soarta si ea o cunoaste pe nevasta lui. Ele se indragostesc. Se indragostesc una de alta. Ea trebuie sa aleaga si e confuza. Ei incearca sa-si salveze casnicia. Chiar daca in trei. El o mananca pe ea (si nu este o figura de stil).

I have become my own pornographer. His body. Her body. My body. Unseparated,
twisting, dark. The grinning collusion of skulls boned in lust. The silent
gravity-gone somersault of she on he on she. There we are, the infernal
triangle, turning in the lubricious air, breast, cock, cunt, oversized inflated
parashutes of skin.

De ce alege Winterson un triunghi? Pentru ca un triunghi este mai interesant decat o linie dreapta. „Este o chestie de geometrie!” dupa cum marturiseste autoarea.
Romanul te solicita la fiecare pagina din cauza nenumaratelor definitii fizice, a numeroaselor simboluri si a trimiterilor spre cabala. Cred ca aici Winterson a dus metafora spre un alt nivel, desi urmeaza un prea dificil drum al postmodernismului care risca uneori sa indeparteze cititorul neexperimentat.
Dar sa ne intelegem: Winterson isi alege astfel singura cititorii! Nu este o carte pentru cititorii grabiti, cititorii de vacanta. Este un roman atat de dens incat esti nevoit sa te opresti la fiecare pagina si sa te lasi cuprins in adancurile lumii ei fermecate.
I hardly cared that sharing had come to be spelled capture. Intelectually I was emancipated. Emotionally I still lived in a seraglio. I had been waiting for my prince to come.
Si da, este vorba despre dragoste. Despre frumusete si dragoste.
Walk with me. Walk the ancient history of his body, recorded in quasars, erupted in light. Kiss him and I kiss the full of him and the dust of him. Touch him where he is firm and my hand passes through into empty space. Love him and I love this man, this body. Love him and I love star-dust and light.
What corner of my insect world does pain not posses? The
walls are smeared with it, sticky, slightly sweet. Pain is as total as a

What kills love? Only this: neglect.
I knew I was neglecting myself. Oh not in the ways taboo to modern religion: leaving my hair as the inside of a rabbit hutch; choosing clothes that hang as though they had started life as a horse blanket. My hand don’t shake when I read the morning paper and when I take my make-up off I don’t look like a red-eyed
warewolf either. I eat well, drink modestly, exercise to prevent my thighs from
swimming into two seals. I read, think, work hard and my blood pressure is
Was there nothing else?
There was: a woman whose face collides with mine in the mirror. I know she wants to speak to me but when she bends forward to whisper, she has no mouth.

I’ve lived my life like a serial killer; finish with one part, strangle it and move on to the next. Life in neat little boxes is life in neat little coffins, the dead bodies of the past laid out side by side. I am discovering, now, in the late afternoon of the day, that the dead still speak. Past? Present? Future? The language of the dead. Totality of time.

I do not want to spend the rest of my life as a volunteer member of the FBI. Where did you go, who did you see, what did you do today dear? I would love you as a bird loves flight, as meat loves salt, as a dog loves chase, as water finds its own level. Or I would not love you at all.

Jeanette Winterson scrie condensat si cu forta. Se joaca cu metodele narative cu naturalete si nu transpare nicaieri o singura nota de falsitate sau o singura scapare stilistica. Impecabila. Si naucitoare.

Will you understand? I am not sure that I understand myself. Give me your hand. Put it to my mouth. Kiss you. Tongue, teeth, language. My word forming bubbles under your fingers. Water and air. Hope. I want to tell you…and so I go diving for the words, bringing them back in glittering nets, spilled over our feet as we stand amazed at the sea.

Dar este mult mai mult decat atat. Jeanette Winterson este forta pura. Priviti si intelegeti la ce ma refer.